


The Storm

by Wait_what_Pancakes



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Other, Post-Apocalypse, Romance, Survival, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 18:37:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16124387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wait_what_Pancakes/pseuds/Wait_what_Pancakes
Summary: It had all happened long ago in the minds of the humans. The event was called The Storm by the people who survived. They never talked about the collapse of ecosystems, destruction of houses and crops, technology and knowledge that went up in flames. The scarred humans, scared and traumatised tried to carry on, saving what they could. The world before The Storm was doomed to be forgotten like ancient history, even though it had happened less than a century ago.We follow Francis as he makes his way through the world and eventually discovers the painful truth about this disaster.





	The Storm

He heard his name being called, and slowly his awareness broaded to his surroundings. A young woman entered his tent. Her clothes were made of rough materials, hemp woven to cloth, simple footwraps of worn leather. Her curly dark hair was hidden under a worn cap and in such a manner it made her squarish jaw stand out. Her name was Poulain, and she was one of the leaders of the camp Francis currently stayed at.  
“Frapin. We can’t have you sleeping in. We are generous for keeping you here, to sleep, and give shelter, we shared some food. Now work with us, or you must go.”  
She was one of the younger adults of the camp. The continuous threat of starvation never made anyone grow old. As Francis started to move from his improvised bed she disappeared. He heard the men and women of the camp arguing. The camp was starving, again. He rubbed his eyes, feeling tired still. Before he allowed his daydream to remind him of bubble baths and chardonnay, he got up and left the tent.  
The men and women of the place went on their ways. It was a scene he had seen many times before and grown too used to. A few men and many of the children children carved tools out of wood. Bowls, spoons, and more technical tools, like hatchets from scrap metal. A small group had gone out to hunt, another to gather plants and anything else that could prove useful. Francis took up the care of the camp, and started to clean up the bones by the fire, and washed the bowls from the last meal at the stream nearby. He ignored his reflection- he had still not come to terms with the wrinkles that had appeared around his eyes, or the fact his beard had started to show hints of grey.

Hunting was something he enjoyed doing alone and was successful at, but sometimes he brought along someone who wanted to learn from him. This camp didn’t trust him too much yet, he felt, so he didn’t take an apprentice with him. It had only been a few days since he joined them. It was just temporary to make use of the security it provided, he needed to go in a few days. The camp didn’t know that yet, and with the hostility and tension he planned to just disappear in one early morning. He focussed on his traps now, and prayed one of them caught anything. He had set ten traps yesterday, and he found the last one he checked to be successful. A skinny hare was trembling from stress. Francis quickly put it out of its misery. It had become routine to him, and felt nothing when he bashed in the skull with the hilt of his dagger. He put the small animal in his backpack, and went to look for edible roots. They weren’t easy to find near the camp, and headed back with a few mouthfuls of roots and a bunch of mint and stinging nettle. His hands were thankful that after a few decades the people created a tool to harvest the nettle without pain, which was easy to make when you had the materials. Even though it provided most of his vitamins and was key to his survival, Francis had started to hate mint and nettle after eating it for years. Still he was thankful something like that grew here. At least during the warm months nobody died of scurvy. 

The sun was high and Francis skinned the hare . He saw a child give secret gazes to his work, and he gestured to come over. The child watched silently as the hare was carefully skinned, and Francis made sure there were no holes or rips.  
“You know how to tan a pelt?” Francis asked as he put the hare in a pot.  
The child nodded.  
“How old are you? Do you know?”  
The child shook his head and looked down. Francis looked at him. “I think you must be eight or nine. If you fetch me some water, you can have the pelt.” The child smiled and took Francis’ bucket to the stream. 

The child worked on the pelt as Francis cooked the hare with the roots and leaves. He tried to strike up a conversation with the kid. “So, what’s your name?”  
“Mine’s Lex. That’s Dura. She’s my sister.” He pointed his knife to a girl who was fletching near a tent.  
“You’ve lived with these people all your life?” Francis asked.  
“We’ve moved a few times. When there was no more food.” He concentrated on his work on the pelt. He used a wooden board and some rusty nails and a round stone to keep the hide stretched. He got up to return with an egg yolk. Francis watched him beat it and cover the hide in it, as he stirred his soup in silence. Lex showed the result when he finished. “You did well.” Francis smiled. Lex then ran to show his sister. 

It was not much later that the hunters came back. They were less successful than Francis had been, and brought home a poor meal of just some plants they gathered. They started making soup from dried meats and sorrel, and looked at Francis with which what he thought was jealousy. His hare was cooked through and he removed his pot from the common fire, calling a few orphans to him. He hadn’t been in this camp for a few days, but he knew orphans were always left behind when hunts were unsuccessful, and to give them food was one of the few things Francis could do to ease their existence. He divided it fairly, but made sure he too got his share.

“Are you from the woods, Frapin?” A little boy asked.  
Francis looked up from his bowl. “I guess I am.”  
“You lived there alone?”  
“Yes. For as long as I can remember.” Francis didn’t like these questions a lot, and returned his gaze back to the bowl. The boy however, did not get the hint.  
“I want to be like you when I grow up. You’re strong!”  
Francis couldn’t look up from his food. He sounded just like Alfred when he was younger, and Francis didn’t want to think about his sons, something he rarely allowed himself to do. “What is your name?”  
“Lucas.”  
“Well, Lucas.” Francis tried to speak as patient and gentle as he could manage. “I hope you won’t have such a lonely existence. Having friends is really nice. People who you can trust. Together you are strong.” He finally looked up. “I think you are around twelve. You have some years before you. What do you want to do with them?”  
Lucas was silent for a bit. “I never think about tomorrow.”  
“Start thinking. You never know how much time you have left.” Francis returned to his soup, and scraped his bowl empty. “Wash the dishes and pan in exchange for the soup, children. That’s the only price I ask.”  
Francis put his empty bowl on the ground and returned to rest in his tent, ignoring the stares of the group of adults. 

Francis stared at the ceiling of his tent. He wished he had something of the past. The ring he got from Arthur, it was long gone. A trade he had to made for his life. The picture of his family had been folded so many time there had been a thick white cross over it. It had teared, and not long after, completely disappeared. He did not know where to. It was so long ago already.  
Did he even know what Arthur looked like? He could hardly remember. And their sons… He never got any news about them. Radios didn’t work anymore. Some could only reach a few kilometres. But the only logical explanation that no help had come to him was that the entire world had suffered from The Storm. He turned to his side and closed his eyes. He knew he would be better off if he repressed the memories and forget about the past, but it is hard to forget somebody after twenty centuries. Wasn’t it? Green eyes, thick eyebrows, messy blond hair. Arthur Kirkland. But the exact shade of blond and green, he could not remember. Maybe he had a beard by now, he didn’t know. He let out a sad laugh, louder than he meant to. Ah. The people thought him as crazy already, so he didn’t care too much. 

“Frapin?” A familiar voice came from outside the tent.  
“Poulain?” Francis sat up. “What can I do for you?”  
“Can I enter?”  
Francis opened the front. “Of course. Come in.”  
Poulain entered and sat down. “We have questions. About where you came from.” She tilted her head sideways a bit. She reminded him of a puppy. A wolf pup. “You talk weird, like you are not from this place. We want to know if we can trust you.”  
“Not strange. Ask me anything.” France smiled gently. He was used to this- and who could blame them?  
“Where are you from?”  
“Paris area. I was on my way to the coast when I stumbled on your group.”  
“Isn’t the Paris area destroyed?” She crossed her arms.  
Francis hesitated. “Well, yes… But people are trying to rebuild. I travel from Paris to the sea a lot.”  
“You trade?” She rose an eyebrow.  
“I do anything to survive.” He tried to smile a more confidently now. He liked to be believed, and wasn’t sure she would know he spoke half-truths.  
“You are alone. Nobody travels alone.”  
“I’m not a nobody. I am faster on my own.”  
“You’re lying. You take me as a fool.” She blinked slowly. “Tell me your motives. Where hides your group?”

The interrogation went on, until darkness fell and Francis got a headache. He never changed his story, and Poulain left the tent. “You stay inside. We will discuss your fate in our group. I’ll let you know when we have decided.”  
“Sure. Don’t take too long, mademoiselle.” He sighed and went to lay in bed once more. He hated that his evening of reminisce was ruined, but was sure another opportunity would come. He decided to sleep now he was made a prisoner in his own tent. Sleep came surprisingly easy, but rest never came.

-

Francis woke up early in the morning. He was thirsty and his bladder was full. To his surprise he wasn’t alone in the tent, but a woman slept beside him. A guard? She seemed too peaceful for that. Her lank brown hair came to her shoulders. Her face was calm and relaxed, but damaged. The round dents in her skin looked like the scarring from chicken-pox. Francis decided not to wake her up and got out of the tent. It was chilly outside, but he went to stream to drink and wash himself. The fresh water woke him up, and he sat down at the fire to warm and dry. He fuelled the fire a bit and made breakfast. He ground some seeds and grains from his stock with water to make a dough to bake on a flat stone near the flames. Unrisen bread, unsweet biscuits. He didn’t know what to call it and he didn’t like it too much, but survival came before comfort and luxury. 

The woman that slept beside him joined him at the fire as the dough was cooked. She looked at him as if she expected something, then warmed her hands on the flames.  
“Good morning.” Francis said. “Would you like some breakfast?”  
“What did you make?” Her voice was soft, but rough at the same time.  
“It’s a recipe with no name. I don’t know if it is worthy of a name really.” He used a stick to get the biscuits off the stone, cooling it in his bowl. “If only there was sugar or honey around, I could make something much better.”  
“What’s sugar?” She said with curiosity in her voice.  
“Well… Something you can get from some plants. It’s like salt in structure, but it’s sweet like honey.” Francis explained. “You cannot really find it anymore nowadays.”  
He held out his bowl. “Please, take one.”

They ate the tough and tasteless biscuits. Francis chewed long on them to satisfy his hunger the most. For him it was mostly about faking his brain, anyway.  
“You ever had sugar?” The woman asked.  
“Long ago. It was a common good before the Storm.” He smiled at her, and she looked away to avoid his eyes. “I didn’t hear you come in last night” Francis stated.  
The woman remained silent. Keeping her eyes averted, she said “Andros and Poulain decided you are welcome to stay, if you prove useful. We must share beds, and you must provide for me, and I.. for you.” She sat still, almost as if she was paralyzed. “They came to you to tell you this, but you were asleep.”  
“They know I am a traveler, correct?” Francis asked, “I won’t stay here for long.”  
“I think they hope you take me away. I..” She shook her head.  
Francis thought for a bit. He had seen this before in other camps. Those deemed too weak or unworthy were left behind. Only the strong were allowed to grow. The same was true for the orphans with who he shared his meal the day before. He had seen worse years ago when people were still more numerous. Flashbacks came to him of murders and corpses. This was no longer the country he loved.  
He became aware of his surroundings again when he heard some rustling from the tents. Fearing their conversation was no longer private, he said “I’ll teach you to hunt today.”

Francis made the second trap while the woman observed his skilful fingers. She didn’t ask questions, or strike up any kind of conversation. It made him feel slightly uncomfortable to be watched in total silence. “You never told me your name.” He said softly and he looked up from his kneeling position. “May I know it?”  
“Jeanneau. Jean for short.” The woman smiled. “Your name is Frapin, if I heard right?”  
“I go by that name, yes.” He looked back at the trap. “Well, Jeanneau, as you can see, if an animal touches this part, he will likely get captured by the rope here…” He handed her a stick. “Try it, just knock this part here over with the stick.” She did, and the trap worked, capturing the stick.  
“Seems you caught us some dinner.” Francis laughed. “Does your camp make traps like this?” He looked up again, seeing her surprised and intrigued expression.  
“We don’t. We tried to make other ones but they never worked. We usually just hunt bigger animals.”  
Francis started to re-make the trap. “How’s that been working out?”  
“Terrible. They hardly bring back meat. They usually rob animal nests if they get desperate. Even babies are better than nothing. Is it okay if I sit down too?” Francis looked up. “Of course. You need not ask.”  
She sat down. “If they actually catch something most of us don’t get any, while we provide the most for the camp. Fire, shelter, edible plants and medicine. It’s not fair.”  
Francis hummed softly as sign he had listened. “Then why haven’t you run away? You seem to be more intelligent than most of your camp.” He finished the trap and put some bait under it. Some of the last grains. He should try to find some more while setting the traps.  
“I’m not sure what that means.” She stared at the ground.  
“Your… Thinking, is good. I think you are a fast learner.” He looked at Jean.  
“Thank you. I had a mother who taught me a lot.” She fiddled with the roughly hemmed end of her tunic. Francis only now noticed how much thinner and rougher the material was compared to the others in camp.  
“What did she teach you?”  
“Medicine and something she called diplomacy. But she couldn’t teach me everything before she died. She was different.” She paused. “I can’t hunt and my face has been destroyed by illness. My mother wasn’t born in this camp. I am the lowest of the women here.” She looked up at him, as if she wanted to apologise.  
“Then why did you not leave?” Francis asked again, more concern in his voice this time.  
“Where to? This is the only place I know.” She shrugged  
“Fair enough. We should check on the other traps.” 

None of the traps worked today. They moved them to different spots, while Jeanneau learnt to set them. Jeanneau’s sharp eyes spotted many edible plants Francis missed, and after a few hours they found enough plants to cook into a meal they could share with the orphans. Francis spent a lot of the time in his head and he rarely spoke. Jeanneau, too, was silent. Only when they headed back to camp he wondered aloud if he had been rude. He had become too used to being on his own, but to his relief she answered that she enjoyed the silence. 

The hunters had come back before them, again unsuccessful. The small group looked curiously at how the two emerged from the forest and kneeled at the common fire to cook a soup. Francis tried his best to dodge the looks of the men and women while he prepared the meal to avoid provoking them. Hunger had rarely a good effect on people’s temper. They were with too many to be fed with what the two had gathered, and again Francis shared the meal with the children. He did not eat, and excused himself when he had divided the thin liquid, more a broth than anything substantial.  
Jeanneau joined Francis in the tent after a while. Silently she observed Francis, who was reading a book. Words read hundreds of times often lost their meaning, and this book was no different. It was like meditation for Francis to read, even if none of the words even carried meaning anymore. A piece of quiet in this world of madness.  
“You can read?”  
Francis looked up. He had noticed her entrance, but not acknowledged it before. “I can.”  
“That’s a valuable skill.” Jeanneau smiled and looked at the book, curious. “What are you reading?”  
Francis looked down. This book, once a prised possession, had become meaningless to nearly everyone in these lands. “It’s… A lyrics book from a CD from Stromae.” He looked up to see her confusion. “A singer- he used to be very popular at the time of The Storm.”  
“I see…” She looked more puzzled than before. Francis sighed and put it away in his backpack. “Can you sing?”  
Francis shrugged. “I suppose so. I… Where I lived people really loved making music.” He paused, frowning. “The only places where music can be heard now is in Paris and other big cities. It is not a good sign when you do.”  
“.. Why?” Jeanneau pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. Francis tried to ignore the shortness of her tunik, and what it revealed.  
“It means groups of bad people come. It is to scare others away. There are a lot of fights going on there. It’s not a good place.” Francis laid down, using his backpack as a pillow.  
“You’re from Paris, right?”  
“I am not part of any group or gang there. I just go there to trade.”  
Jeanneau remained silent. Francis deemed the conversation over and closed his eyes. He heard her get up and leave, and he decided to rest to save his energy. 

The morning was much like the one before. Jeanneau joined for breakfast and they ate in relative silence. The night had been cold and Francis felt cramps in his legs. He tried to stretch to ease the pain before he went to collect food. Jeanneau and Francis were gone before the others were up. 

“Chew on this.” Jeanneau came to Francis with a handful of what seemed tree bark. “It helps against the pain.”  
“Pain?” Francis asked curiously.  
Jeanneau gestured at his legs. “Muscle pain? This helps to make it go away for a bit.” She lowered her hand. “Unless I was wrong?”  
Francis smiled. “You are very observant. So I just chew on it?”  
Jeanneau nodded and gave him the bark, before heading off to collect more. Francis put a piece of the bark in his mouth and started chewing on the slightly bitter wood while he collected wood for the fire. 

“Give it up.” One of the hunters blocked their way when they headed back to camp. “We share in this camp. You, give up the food. We too need to eat.”  
Francis saw Jeanneau tense up in the corner of his eye. “I thought we all hunted and gathered for ourselves in this camp.” Francis said calmly. “I don’t have enough to share with all of you.”  
“You’ve been sharing with those children.” The hunter said. He was muscular and tanned, his hair rested in a long braid on his back. Not someone Francis felt like picking a fight with, but he was not ready to just give up what he gathered just yet.  
“What I have, I share with the camp. But I chose who I share with.” Francis crossed his arms. “I can give you some food, but not everything.”  
The man spit on the ground. “You’ll regret this.” He turned around and left them alone. 

“Frapin, they’re looking at us.” Jeanneau whispered nervously to Francis. He did not look up, instead he just kept stirring the soup.  
“We have to leave this camp when the morning comes.”  
“Hmm…” Jeanneau hummed. Then the meaning of the words downed on her. “What?” She said louder than Francis wished she had.  
“I have to travel to a place. It’s… Vital that I do. You will die if I left you here.” He looked up from the pot. “I will keep you save.”

The children were happy when they got to eat again. Jeanneau was silent and seemingly lost in thought, while Francis told the children about anything they wished to know. He was in a generous mood, as he knew this was his last moment to help to the children. When the night came, Jeanneau and Francis both stared to the top of their shared tent, awake but speechless. Eventually Francis broke the silence between them. “Are you scared?” He whispered, and moved on his side to look at her.  
“Yes.” She answered after a pause. “I don’t know what’s going to happen.”  
Francis sighed. “I know. Do you want me to tell you?”  
Jeanneau chewed on her cheek. “I think, we’ll walk to your group?”  
“I hope we do.” Francis answered. “..I don’t have a group. But there is someone I hope to meet.”  
“Who is it?”  
“An old friend.”


End file.
